


The Dark

by wargoddess



Series: The Warden Arcanum [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Creepy, Dark, Exhibitionism, F/M, Group Sex, Ice Play, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Porn With Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen's having trouble adjusting to life as a Warden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark

     The first time Cullen acknowledges that what he is seeing is in fact an orgy, he almost leaves the Wardens.

     It does take some time for him to understand.  He's tipsy, for one, if not drunk outright, given that the dwarves have made free with several casks of fiendishly powerful liquor they've obtained through "connections" of the shadowy sort.  The stuff tastes like flowers and goes down like fire, and even though Cullen has partaken sparingly -- he knows he can't hold his liquor -- it's gone straight to his head.  He's found himself doing things he would never do under ordinary circumstances:  cuddling with Carver on a chaise longe in the middle of the common room, for example, where everyone can see them.  Laughing like a madman at the most inane jokes.  And at first he thinks nothing of it when Velanna slides into Darrian's lap and begins kissing him, loudly and wetly.  No one else seems to care, and no one is staring except Cullen -- mostly because he's amazed to see that either elf has a libido at all.  They both spend so much of their time _angry_ that Cullen simply doesn't think of them as the sorts of people who might crave softness or warmth.  A failing on his part, obviously, because Darrian is clearly enjoying having a lovely woman undulating on his lap, and Velanna seems to particularly relish stroking his ears while she explores his mouth with her tongue.

     Carver, his arms wrapped 'round Cullen from behind, chuckles in his ear.  "Frolicking," he whispers, and Cullen cannot help _giggling_ at this in the most undignified way.  Carver is a terrible influence.

     But it is a celebration, after all, so dignity probably doesn't matter.  Cullen's been a Warden for three months.  Stroud has taken Cullen, along with Levyn and Faren, on Cullen's first foray into the Deep Roads.  Not only has the team returned intact, uninjured, and untraumatized -- or at least, no more traumatized than usual -- but they've found a massive cache of platinum bars and cut jewels in what Faren says was once a noble's mansion, though now it is crumbling and infested with deepstalkers.  Stroud is planning to use the money to send a few well-placed bribes to Val Royeaux, in hopes of quieting some of the calls there for an Exalted March against the Wardens.  There are many ways to fight an undeclared war.

     So everyone's happy, and everyone's also drunk, and now Faren has his hand under one of the human thieves' shirt, massaging her breasts while she arches her back and makes a soft pleased sound.  And Stroud, who was in his favorite plush chair reading a book and smoking a pipe, is setting the book aside now as Sifforth, one of their spirit healers, sits on the arm of his chair and reaches up to pet Stroud's moustache.  Cullen wants to laugh again at this, but something quiets him.  Perhaps it is the way Sifforth is leaning forward, his posture languid and expression hungry; perhaps it is the considering look that Stroud gives him, or the way Stroud finally reaches for him.

     Or perhaps it is the fact that Cullen suddenly realizes nearly everyone in the room is touching someone else, and the touching is very... direct.

     He stiffens.  "Carver."

     "Mmm?"  Carver nuzzles his hair; Cullen cannot tell if he's oblivious or simply unconcerned.

     "The others."

     "Mmm."  Carver strokes Cullen's chest and breathes in the scent of his hair.  He has been doing this since Cullen returned -- reminding himself that Cullen is real, he says, and not a dream.  It has comforted Cullen as well after four long weeks in the deeps without Carver; he marvels, sometimes, at the simple power that the act of touch has to make him feel stronger and safe.  But for the first time, Carver's touch fails to calm Cullen.  What he's seeing disturbs him more.

     "What are they doing?" he asks.  This is a foolish question.  Velanna has adjusted Darrien's clothing just so, and now she is moving in his lap, rolling her hips back and forth in a way that makes both of them moan; there's really no mistaking what that's all about.  And -- Maker -- Sifforth has his hand down Stroud's pants, right there in full view of the room.  And now Gravak, one of the other dwarves, has joined Faren and his thief, and the _three_ of them have moved to the rugs in front of the fire, and -- 

     "Why are they doing this?"  Cullen tears his eyes away from the trio.  He can hardly breathe for shock.  "Carver -- "

     "Shhh," Carver says in his ear, much to Cullen's fury.  "Shit.  I forgot you probably never saw this before.  Just let them enjoy themselves, right?  Everybody's been so wound up."  He yawns again, lazy and comfortable and utterly _oblivious_ ; Cullen has never wanted to hit him more.  "But we can go, if you'd rather."

     Cullen sits up and turns and glares at him.  "Yes.  I would rather.  And in fact, I _shall_."

     And he is out of the room before Carver has a chance to even get up.

#

     Carver finds him a little while later on the southern balcony, which overlooks Ansburg's rather humble -- in comparison with Kirkwall -- port.  But the moon is huge and beautiful above the harbor's waters, and the faint tolling of the dinghy bells reminds him a little of the bells in the Chantry orphanage where he was raised, so he likes it up here.  He comes here at night, sometimes, after dreaming of violent, terrible things.

     Carver doesn't say anything at first, just leaning against the wall, and eventually Cullen calms down enough to speak.

     "It is said of the Wardens that they are peerless warriors," Cullen says, softly.  "I have found this to be true.  But it is also said -- in the shadows of the Chantry, in whispers behind the Templar barracks -- that a Warden keep is a den of iniquity.  That they -- "  He falters.  "That _we_ strengthen ourselves with infernal potions, and unleash our fiendish desires upon the unsuspecting in unnatural revels.  To learn that this, too, is true..."  Cullen shakes his head.

     "Yeah, I guess the Joining elixir does count as an infernal potion.  And we _do_ get drunk and fuck a lot.  You should've been here that time Faren got his hands on some aquae lucidius.  Talk about infernal potions..."  Carver sighs and shakes his head.  "But why's that bother you so, Cull?  S'not like we dragged in a bunch of local virgins and gave them all blowjobs against their will, or something."

     Cullen cannot answer at first.  Why _does_ it bother him?  He is all heat and wire inside, vibrating, angry, and it makes no sense.  He knows as well as Carver that everyone in that room downstairs is a consenting adult.  He knows how much tension they must yearn to vent, and he understands -- in principle, at least -- their need to do so in ways that do not fit the neat expectations of society and propriety.  Wardens cannot be proper.  He knows this.  But...

     "It is... difficult, for me, sometimes," Cullen says at last.  "Doing this.  Being here.  Beyond the usual tribulations of being a Warden, I..."  He sets his jaw.  "For all that the Templars were tarnished in Kirkwall, I am still used to being someone _respected_ in society.  A representative of the Chantry.  A role model for how a warrior should behave."

     "Ah."  Carver sighs and comes forward to stand at the railing beside him.  "You miss being a Templar.  That it?"

     Cullen takes a deep breath.  "Yes.  Probably.  I do not know."

     "Right."  Carver nods.  "So, you're getting treated like a mage now, basically, and you don't like it."

     "I -- "  Cullen starts, and turns to him.  He is speechless with affront.  "That isn't it at all!"

     "Isn't it?"  Carver looks out over the harbor and inhales, patently enjoying the night breeze.  "Wardens have great power.  People respect us.  But they also fear us, 'cause sometimes we do terrible things with that power.  And even if they don't know we're all tainted, they can sense that there's something... different... about us.  That's at the best of times."  He shrugs.  "When there's a Blight and one of us offs an archdemon somewhere, they realize just how strange and terrible we are.  How's that any different from what it's like to be a mage? Leaving apart that some of us _are_ mages."

     The analogy holds, though Cullen resists it out of sheer stubbornness.  "Wardens do not destroy cities in a fit of pique."

     "But we can."  Carver's voice is low, soft, chilling.  "That's why we're trying our damnedest to avoid this fight the Chantry keeps trying to pick.  They don't understand what they're dealing with.  Wardens don't fight fair, and we use scorched-earth tactics.  I hate that bastard Anders for what he's done, but could I do it?  Blow up a building full of people?  Yeah.  That was a completely 'Wardenish' thing to do.  _Would_ I do it?  Yeah, if doing that might stop a war before it starts."  He sighs.  "I'd do it in a heartbeat."

     Cullen looks at him in surprise.  In profile, Carver's face is somber, flint-hard.  And this troubles Cullen, because he remembers meeting a young man who had integrity enough to be a model Templar.  The Wardens have hardened him almost beyond recognition.

     Will they do the same to Cullen, in time?

     "I am changing," Cullen says, softly.  And all at once he understands what is troubling him, why the Wardens' orgy so frightened him.  "I make decisions now that would once have been appalling to me. And since I have come here, Carver... I cannot bring myself to _pray_ anymore.  I know you are not devout..."

     "Nope.  But I know you are.  And I did wonder."  Carver puts a hand on Cullen's, where it grips the railing tightly.  "You _have_ to change to survive as a Warden, Cull.  We can't be like ordinary people.  You'll go nuts if you try."

     Perhaps that is true.  But perhaps the change itself is what will drive Cullen mad, at this rate.

     They gaze out at the harbor for awhile, listening to the bells.  After awhile, however, Carver says:  "If you hadn't come here to join the Wardens, I would never have gone back to Kirkwall to be with you.  You know that, right?"

     Cullen flinches.  "Never?"

     Carver sighs and shifts position, moving behind Cullen and leaning against his back comfortably, still covering Cullen's hands on the railing.  "I think I fell for you that night.  I mean, I had a thing for you before that, but... that night made it real.  Was it the same for you?"

     Cullen shivers a little at the memory, and makes himself nod. 

     "Then it would've been cruel for me to keep it going. I don't do cruel things to people I love, Cull.  No Warden does, if he's got a soul."

     And Cullen shudders, because he understands now.  Oh _how_ he understands.  He has seen what darkspawn do to a victim, to a whole village of victims, when they can.  He has seen a broodmother and stared at her face in the horrified realization that _this was once a human being_.  And he has lamented the Maker's cruelty in punishing humankind this way.

     But once, not so very long ago, Cullen would have found it almost as cruel to be left alone forever.  Not when he could have found at least a few hours of happiness in the arms of another.  He had been so lonely, then, that he would have taken whatever Carver gave him, however little that was.  No matter how much it hurt.

     But that was then.  Cullen thinks now that he would not have understood, in those days, how _inevitable_ the hurt was for one who loved a Warden.  Or how soon that hurt would strike.  Carver's Calling is likely to come much earlier than Cullen's, because of the way Carver Joined; Cullen will be lucky to have ten years with him.  This is a terrible awareness that keeps Cullen awake at nights, but as a Warden, he has come to accept it.  He has to. As a Templar... he isn't sure he could have.

     He looks at Carver, and Carver nods and smiles a little, sadly. 

     "Better to break your heart, and mine," Carver says, very softly.  "Better to lose myself in a hundred other people who either don't give a shit or who understand because they're Wardens too.  Better anything, if it kept me from seeing all that _hope_ in your face, knowing I'd only destroy it in the end."  He sighs, closing his eyes.  "Won't pretend it wasn't selfish."

     There's nothing Cullen can say to that.  So he stands there, letting Carver's body warm him and thinking that he is glad, so glad, for even this brief moment of connection.  There will be so few others before all is said and done.

     And suddenly the _unnatural revels_ of the Wardens seem a bit more natural, and not nearly as frightening as they did before.

     Carver takes a deep breath and straightens in a way that Cullen has come to recognize as Carver's way of changing the subject.  "All that said... you can't give up who you are just because you're a Warden now.  You don't want to stay around while a bunch of drunk horny people fuck each other blind, you don't ever have to.  Just try not to spoil the others' fun, is all I ask."

     Cullen feels a little foolish, now.  "I shall endeavor to be more... open-minded.  It was just... a shock."

     "Yeah.  Me, too, first time it happened.  Not that that stopped me."  Carver shrugs, grinning, when Cullen blinks at him in surprise.  "You _do_ know I've slept with just about everybody in that room, right?"

     Cullen blinks; he had not known.  It is an uncomfortable thought, though not as troubling as some part of him thinks it should be.  He has seen how close Carver is to the other Wardens...  "Even Stroud?"

     "Mmm-hmm."  Though Carver grimaces.  "I _don't_ recommend him, though, if you ever get the urge.  Stay away from Orlesians, my old army commander used to say, 'cause they're monsters in bed -- bad enough -- but they're _snooty_ about it, which is worse.  Couldn't walk for two days after that fucker was done with me, and he just shook his head and told me I needed more practice!"

     In spite of himself Cullen laughs.  And then he relaxes, gradually, as Carver tightens his arms around Cullen and regales him with stories of all his fellow Wardens' sexual foibles.  Velanna likes to claw.  Faren likes to chew.  Terevas, the Keep's kossith Warden who spends most of his time in the practice yard, likes to nuzzle.  There's a dwarven woman named Mereg who's got a real thing for human and elven women with small breasts.  And apparently the Dalish elves have a special word for 'men who do their part to spread the seed of the elvhen', and Velanna yells that word whenever Darrian makes her come.

     Then Carver stops talking and they just stand there awhile, comfortable and warm.  Eventually Carver says, softly, "They've been asking about you, y'know.  Whether we'll share."

     "Whether we will share what?"  Then Cullen blushes violently.  "Oh."

     Carver chuckles.  "Shouldn't be surprised, y'know.  You're fucking gorgeous.  And they can hear us going at each other sometimes, so that's got 'em curious."  Carver's hand smooths its way down Cullen's torso, and Cullen inhales as his fingers toy along the edge of Cullen's trousers.  That is all it takes.  Cullen squirms a little, his breath quickening and cock hardening, and Carver makes a pleased, proprietary sound at this reaction.  "You're so much the gentleman where they can see you, but they know behind closed doors you're something else."

     Cullen shivers, and reaches back to cup Carver's head.  "With _you_ , yes."

     "Yeah."  Carver kisses the side of Cullen's neck, then sighs and takes a deep breath.  "Which is why I've been saying no."  He pauses.  "But... if you _do_ want to share, it's okay.  I mean, as long as it's with a Warden.  I won't mind, is what I'm saying."

     Cullen frowns and turns to him.  He doesn't know how he feels about this.  It is something he's never considered.  _Would_ never consider, if not for this conversation.  Carver is everything he wants and needs.

     _But I will not have Carver forever._

     Cullen flinches at this thought, and suddenly understands a little more of why Wardens do things the way they do.

     Carver slides a hand into Cullen's pants and strokes him, and in spite of his mood Cullen shivers.  "I don't care what you do with this," Carver says, his hand gentle, slow, just the way Cullen likes.  "I mean, don't get me wrong.  I love your dick."  He pulls his hand free, his own breath quickening as he unlaces Cullen's pants with jerky eagerness.  "I dream about having you in my mouth, and having you in me, and _having_ you.  But what's between us isn't _just_ this.  Yeah?  So as long as that part doesn't change, I don't care what else you do to feel good."

     The words become meaningless.  Cullen is suddenly hungry, desperate, for the feel of Carver's skin against his own.  He pulls off his shirt and yanks at Carver's until Carver finally lets him pull it off, and then he presses against Carver, holding him close, nibbling at his shoulder and drawing fingertips hard down his back.  They are out in the open, up here on the balcony; if any of the city guard are watching, they'll get an eyeful.  But Cullen cannot find it in himself to care.

     Carver laughs at his eagerness and pulls away, perhaps to torment Cullen -- but a moment later he is on his knees, and Cullen is in his mouth, and Cullen sags against the wall and lets himself stop thinking until Carver has taken his fill. 

     When Carver stands, wiping his mouth, Cullen pulls him close and demands a taste of himself from those soft beautiful lips.  Then he's pressing his palm against Carver's crotch, enjoying the feel of all that unsatisfied want against his hand -- but abruptly Carver makes a tight sound and catches his wrist.

     "I want to go downstairs," he says to Cullen, breathing hard.  "I want to watch.  Just watch. _This_ is yours, nobody else touches it unless you say so."  He thrusts up against Cullen's hand, and Cullen makes a little sound because that should not excite him as much as it does.  " _I'm_ yours.  But... they're sharing, and... I need some of that.  Do you understand?  I just... please?"

     And perhaps it is this plea, or that Cullen is still warm in the aftermath of his climax, or maybe it's that Cullen's still a little drunk, or maybe he just understands better now that the strange things Wardens do are not all bad.  Regardless of the reason, he nuzzles Carver and says, "Yes."

     So they go downstairs, and although Cullen blushes furiously the whole time, he makes himself watch, and think.  And in spite of himself, he shivers when he sees Sifforth whimpering and biting his knuckles while Stroud holds him down and fucks him brutally with what must be the world's biggest cock.  And Cullen's breath quickens when he sees that Velanna and Darrian are still at it, still almost fully clothed, though they have changed positions now and her hips roll like a gudgeon as he rocks on top of her.  And Cullen has to close his eyes when he sees Faren's thief -- he thinks her name is Yachiya, he's only spoken to her once -- moaning as she lies covered in dwarven men.  The sight of them together is so powerful that it almost hurts his mind.

     Then Carver whispers something pleading in his ear, Cullen can't hear what because Yachiya screams when Faren does something with his mouth between her legs, and Cullen can't take it anymore.  He drags Carver out of the room.  They don't make it all the way to Carver's apartment because they're kissing each other as they walk and Cullen's half blind because Carver's fingers are drawing delicate circles 'round his nipple.  Cullen's knees buckle and he stumbles and suddenly they're on the floor, on the big plush bear-rug in front of the library fireplace, and it takes only a little repositioning for each of them to take the other's cock into his mouth.  But Cullen wants to _fuck_ , so he pulls free before Carver can bring him off again, and he climbs onto Carver and puts a hand between them to bring them into line and then they rut against each other until Cullen sees stars.  Carver clings to him and shouts into the curve of his neck and Cullen gasps out his name as the orgasm grinds through them both. 

     But in the aftermath, belatedly, Cullen wishes the others could have seen this.  Everyone should know how lucky Cullen is.

#

     The second time the orgy begins, Cullen is more aware of what's happening, but still slow to catch on.

     This is partly because he was injured in the battle they're celebrating, and his heart is sore.  That battle was against Templars, and Cullen has seen just how far his former brethren have fallen.  He did not know the men he fought on that mountain trail, countering their Smites so that his fellow Wardens stayed safe, watching their eyes widen as they realized what Cullen was; that was the only blessing.  Far, far worse was what came after, when the victorious Wardens backtracked the rogue Templars to their encampment, and found the sad remnants of two mages they'd caught some weeks before.  So terrified were these mages that one of them unleashed a Firestorm as soon as Stroud removed her manacles; Cullen Silenced her, but not before taking a serious burn to his upper chest.  The woman could not even apologize, once her panic faded, for the Templars had taken her tongue.

     All this is past.  The Wardens have healed themselves and freed the mages with what succor they could provide, then returned home to quietly celebrate survival, again.  If there is an air of desperation to this celebration, a need for the survivors to purge the feelings that come of seeing how monstrous non-darkspawn can be, no one mentions it.  Cullen just takes the bottle when it comes around, and drinks as deeply as everyone else.

     (He holds his liquor better these days.  Carver says most Wardens eventually get pretty good at that.  It isn't because of the taint.)

     Cullen is lying on the rug in front of the hearth.  It bothers him that he does things like this now, that some part of him has forgotten discipline and order, but he is spiritually exhausted and anyway, no one cares.  The burn on his chest has been healed, but the skin is sensitive still, so he's wearing no shirt and looking into the fire and wondering if perhaps the others shouldn't have just let him burn.

     Carver comes to sit beside him, carrying a bowl.  "Got something for you."

     "What is it?"  Cullen does not look away from the fire.  Carver's presence is both a comfort and an irritant.  Cullen loves him, yet cannot help fearing the pain his death will cause.  Cullen wants to be alone, and yet he is afraid of his own thoughts.  These conflicted feelings are why he lies here before the fire, in the middle of a room full of people who aren't looking at him.  It is an acceptable compromise.

     In answer, Carver takes something from the bowl and holds it over Cullen's chest.  A breath later something falls on his skin and it is stunning!! in its coldness.  Cullen jumps and gasps and looks up; Carver's smiling, and holding a handful of snow.

     It's early autumn, cool but still far too warm for snow.  Then Cullen glances beyond Carver and sees Levyn perched on the couch with his knees drawn up.  When Cullen's eyes meet his, Levyn blushes and looks away. Mages.

     "I got burned once," Carver says.  He puts the snow back in the bowl but then splays his cold hand, ever-so-lightly, on Cullen's chest.  Cullen jerks involuntarily.  "Kept feeling hot even after I got healed.  Probably all in my head, but this helped.  How's it for you?"

     Cullen can't answer.  The cold is so stark and sharp that almost, it hurts.  Almost, he says stop.  And yet.  As Carver begins to move his cold, wet hand in a slow arc across Cullen's chest, Cullen finds that it _does_ feel better.  Like Carver is quieting a low, soughing wind that Cullen has been hearing all along.

     "It is... interesting," Cullen says at last, and Carver smiles and picks up more of the snow.

     He paints cold across Cullen's fevered skin in broad, soothing strokes.  Cullen eventually relaxes and shuts his eyes.  He's not even thinking about sex -- until suddenly, he is.  Perhaps this starts when Carver's cold fingers graze over one nipple, even though the burn did not go down that far.  Or perhaps it's just the unavoidable consequence of being with Carver, being touched by Carver, being loved by Carver.  These days Cullen thinks about sex much, much more than he used to.

     He starts breathing harder, and of course Carver starts to caress beyond his chest.  Carver knows Cullen well by now, in the cantical sense; in the eight months that Cullen's been a Warden, Carver has fucked him hundreds of times.  Cullen suspects it's not normal for couples to make love like this -- two or three times every night, relentlessly when they've got a spate of rest days, sometimes until one or both of them is chafing or too tired to continue -- but, well.  Carver has wanted him for years and Cullen has been celibate for years.  They both have a lot of making up for lost time to do.

     (They are also working on limited time, trying to get as much of each other as they can, while they can.  But this is not something that needs to be said or even thought clearly.)

     So it's not at all surprising that Carver's hand begins to trail up Cullen's throat.  It draws lines over his larynx and Cullen has a sudden memory of seeing white lines on the throat of Garrett Hawke's elf; he wonders suddenly whether Hawke ever licks those lines.  As if hearing this thought Carver shifts, and suddenly Cullen gasps because there is something _hot_ on his once pleasantly-cool skin.  Hot and wet and slurping:  Carver has licked him, then followed that lick with an openmouthed kiss.  He lifts his head quickly and puts his cold fingers over the spot, chilling it again, but Cullen's skin tingles in the aftermath.  As Carver probably intended.

     It continues.  Cold fingers chill Cullen's lips, and then a hot mouth sears them; cold fingers walk down his ears and neck and hot teeth graze their wake; cold water trickles down Cullen's abdominals to pool in his navel, and hot breath makes him shudder and arch until it spills off to the sides.  It is such a relief when Carver finally opens his pants that he moans aloud. 

     He has completely forgotten that he is in a room full of people.

     But when Cullen remembers and opens his eyes, most of the Wardens aren't looking.  They've turned their attentions to other things:  Velanna to Stroud, who is watching her in a predatory sort of way as she toys with the bulge in his trousers; Darrien to Yachiya, who's lying on a longe and pretending to read a book while his fingers make wet sounds under her skirt; Sifforth to Levyn -- Levyn, who is definitely watching Cullen, his eyes lambent in the firelight even as Sifforth gets his robes up and starts to push into him. 

     Cullen stares back at this last pair, obliquely fascinated in spite of himself because suddenly it is obvious that _Levyn wants Cullen_ ; has wanted him for some while, though he has hidden it well before now.  But Levyn cannot hide beneath shyness or standoffishness while another man's cock is pushing him open and breaking down all his walls.  When Carver gets Cullen's pants off, Levyn licks his lips at the sight of Cullen's cock lying heavy and full across his groin.  When Carver cups him with an icy hand and makes Cullen cry out in startled pleasure, Levyn shudders and fumbles the front of his robes up and puts his hands between his own legs.  When Carver follows these caresses with his searing-hot mouth, which he slides down over the frozen length of Cullen ruthlessly even as Cullen shouts at the stark sweet pleasure of it, Levyn whimpers and turns his face into a pillow -- perhaps because otherwise he will come well before Sifforth, and that would just be rude.

     Cullen has to pull Carver off him then, because he doesn't want to be rude either, and the sight of the blood mage struggling to control himself coupled with the heat of Carver's mouth is too much.  So Cullen pulls Carver down and turns him over on his belly and reaches for the bowl himself, which by now is mostly full of melting slush.  But it's still cold, and he gets his fingers nice and properly icy before he grazes them along Carver's cleft.  When Carver cries out and lifts his hips, Cullen teases little icy rings around his entrance, stroking just behind his balls with a thumb at the same time.  This reduces Carver to something boneless and inarticulate, which makes Cullen want very, very badly to be inside him.  But he has no oil.

     There is a prickle of magic nearby.  Some part of Cullen remains sensitive to it even though he no longer takes lyrium; another double-edged blessing of the taint.  He sees that Levyn -- one eye visible above the pillow's curve -- has stretched out a shaking hand, which glows even while Sifforth fucks him harder than Stroud fucked Sifforth at the last orgy.  Abruptly Cullen's hand is full of slickness.  A grease spell.

     He nods to Levyn, once.  Levyn's hand falls; his eye flutters shut; he utters only a helpless sort of groan, and finally subsumes himself to his own pleasure.

     So then Cullen fucks Carver in long, steady strokes.  He's on his knees, with Carver kneeling before him; no need for anything creative when the tried-and-true works so well.  Carver is lean and smooth and perfect beneath him, pushing back to meet him beat for beat.  Cullen pets Carver's mabari, the stark black tattoo on his left arse-cheek, to encourage him, not that either of them needs any encouragement.  It is marvelous.  At one point Cullen looks up to find that many in the room are watching him, them...  but strangely, this does not bother him.  He finds that he _likes_ their gazes, in fact.

     Later he will not know what to think of this.  In the moment, he does not bother thinking.

     So when Velanna -- who is being fucked with surprising gentleness by Stroud, perhaps because he is holding her up against a nearby wall and that takes most of his strength -- licks her lips at the sight of them, Cullen pushes Carver's shoulders down and lifts his hips a little more, so she can see better.  And when Faren and Darrian and all of them turn to look, when Cullen is thrumming with the energy of their gazes, when Carver begins to make the low, broken sounds that mean he's going to come soon, Cullen hauls him up to stand on his knees, and wraps one arm around Carver's torso and the other 'round his cock.

     "This is mine," he breathes raggedly, over Carver's shoulder, into his ear.  He says it loudly enough that the others can hear, but the words are mostly for Carver, for himself.  " _He_ is mine.  But you may... nnh, you may love him too... if you wish."  And then he cannot help grinning.  "If he finds you worthy."

     Carver is laughing breathlessly; Cullen is completely serious.  Then the pull starts in Cullen's groin and his chest catches fire and he groans into Carver's shoulder and pumps Carver _just so_ with one hand and fights his own peak until he feels Carver arching, hears him wailing, feels Carver's beautiful cock stutter and splutter between Cullen's fingers.  Only then does Cullen let himself go.

     They come down from the peak in a leisurely sort of way, still fucking lazily until exhaustion overwhelms pleasure, and then Cullen eases Carver down to lie on the rug.  Carver is watching him, icy blue eyes made warm by the firelight.  "Mine too," he murmurs to Cullen.  " _My_ champion.  My sword."

     Cullen smiles and lies propped on one elbow awhile just looking back at him and thinking, _I have given up so much of myself, for you._

_But I have gained more.  And I would do it again, if I had the choice a second time._

     This, at last, makes the melancholia fade.  Cullen puts his head down on Carver's chest and closes his eyes at the feel of Carver's fingers in his hair.  They lie this way for the rest of the night.

#

     The third time, Cullen knows exactly what he is doing.

     He has been a Warden for a year, and at last he is beginning to _understand_.  He hears the darkspawn, dreaming and waking, as a whisper in the back of his soul.  It is nothing compared to the whisper of endless lyrium-lust that he felt when he was a Templar, so it does not trouble him... and yet.  It _has_ changed him. 

     There is a unity in the way that Wardens function -- a degree of coordination which transcends discipline or training, and which made no sense to Cullen for the first few months.  He could _see_ the others fighting as one, each striking where another defends, but no matter how he tried to adjust his own fighting style to match theirs, something in him was always a little off.  Always out of sync.

     All that has changed in the past few months.  Now he understands that the strength of the Wardens is the strength of the horde.  That is a terrifying thought, but it is also undeniable.  What drives them is the need to _protect_ life, as powerfully as the darkspawn are driven to destroy it.  When lives are threatened, all Wardens react.  Even the selfish ones like Anders, who think to refuse this subtler calling, probably feel it when other Wardens are nearby; this is why deserters tend to flee to remote places far from any Warden Keep.  The Wardens do not pursue them.  When they are needed, when danger comes near, even the selfish ones will serve, and sacrifice.  All Wardens do, eventually.

     A case in point:  an Awakened darkspawn -- one of the dead Mother's scattered servants, hoping to reclaim her mad legacy -- took up residence on the Wounded Coast some weeks before.  Everyone in Ansburg Keep heard his call and answered with swords and arrows.  It was a long and brutal battle, for the Awakened One had mustered a small army of darkspawn by the time they found him, including two ogres.  But the Wardens of the Free Marches prevailed, just. 

     There has been a casualty this time, however.  Stroud, wielder of the mightiest greatsword in the Keep, has lost an arm.

     He summons Cullen two days after their return, to the same study where he inducted Cullen into the Wardens just one year before.  Cullen greets him and then cannot help looking at the arm, which ends abruptly just below the shoulder.  It's still wrapped in bandages, though the healers have released Stroud from their care.  The lost limb was not Stroud's favored arm, which is good.  He needs two hands to wield a greatsword, which is not.

     Stroud glances at the stump as well, then sighs and gestures for Cullen to sit in the opposite chair while he takes his favorite.  "I keep expecting it to be there," he says, smiling ruefully.  "The healers say that expectation will fade with time."

     "So I have heard, of others with such injuries," Cullen says.  It is an offer of delicacy, in case Stroud is not ready to admit what they both know.

     Stroud, genteel brute that he is, smiles and shakes his head.  "I mean to spend awhile training," he says, "to strengthen my remaining arm, relearn some measure of balance, so that I can be effective against at least genlocks and such.  I mean to take many of them with me, when I go into the Deep Roads."

     So there it is.  "I would be happy to spar with you, if that would help," Cullen says.  He is thinking, _we are lost without you_.

     "I would like that, thank you.  But that is not why I have asked you here."  Stroud sits back and reaches for the pot of tea beside him, wordlessly glancing at Cullen to see if he wants some.  When Cullen shakes his head, Stroud pours for himself, then takes a slight, appreciative sip before continuing.  "I would like to name you Warden Commander of Ansburg and the Free Marches, in my place."

     Cullen starts, and is suddenly glad he did not take any tea.  He ponders this for a long moment, then says, "Would not one of the others -- who are more experienced -- be a better choice?  Carver, in particular, who is your lieutenant..."

     And then Cullen remembers catching Carver watching him intently the night before, while Cullen stripped for the bath.  This was not unusual, and it triggered the usual chain of reactions which ended in both of them on the floor wet and spent.  But now Cullen thinks it was not simply desire that he saw in Carver's assessing gaze.

     He scowls at Stroud, who nods.  "I discussed this with Carver last night.  He concurs that you would be the better leader.  Not only do you have prior experience with command, and greater patience for the administrative duties that come with it -- "  They both grimace at this, because Carver _can_ do paperwork and budgeting and diplomacy, he just _doesn't_.  " -- but you are also a natural leader.  It is clear to me after this past year that _you_ , as much as Hawke, are the reason matters in Kirkwall did not devolve into anarchy until the Chantry fell.  My only concern has been your integration into the rest of the unit.  Recent changes have allayed some of my fears in that respect."

     Cullen frowns a little.  " _Some_ of your fears?"

     Stroud pauses for a sip of tea, which allows Cullen to brace himself.

     "I believe you still think of yourself as a Templar," Stroud says at last, softly.  "Oh, you no longer pray before battles, and your skill at fighting non-mage enemies has grown greatly since your Joining.  But there is a part of you which finds the, hmm, _independence_ of our fellow Wardens discomfiting.  Yes?  You expect obedience; what we have is cooperation.  You crave order, whereas all we offer is... not chaos."  He smiles, moustache twitching.  "Yes?"

     Cullen squirms, because all these things are true.  But he tries to explain.  "I am beginning to understand why the, er, order I might wish for is... inappropriate," he says, reluctantly.  "The Wardens are martial but not military; that is a crucial distinction that it has taken me some time to make.  It is as Carver once told me:  every Warden is a general, expected to raise an army if necessary..."

     "And yet in a _military_ force, too many generals would mean death and the failure of the mission."  Stroud gestures and his stump moves, where he would have gestured with the other hand as well; he grimaces and puts his arm back down.  "But a military force relies on numbers to make up for lack of individual skill.  Discipline is necessary to account for the inescapable diversity of philosophies that exist in any large group.  In the Wardens, there is no diversity of philosophy that matters.  In the end, the 'spawn must die.  That is all there is, and we all want it.  Under those conditions, _trust_ means more than discipline."

     Cullen nods, slowly.  "This I have seen."

     "Good.  But you must do more than merely _see_ it.  To command Wardens, you must inspire, not control.  They must love you, Cullen.  Or it will all fail."

     Cullen frowns more at this.  "How am I to achieve that?"  Because some of the ex-Carta dwarves do not like him on principle, just as Cullen is not overly fond of criminals on principle.  Darrien does not like any human man, since one of them raped and murdered his wife during his alienage days; Velanna dislikes everyone equally, human and other.  And Levyn might desire him, but he also fears Cullen, as any mage who has seen Templars at their worst well might.  There is no love to be had amid that.

     Stroud smiles thinly.  "I have no idea how it can be done," he says.  "I had years to win the others over before I was made commander; you shall not have that luxury, I am afraid, and for that I am sorry.  But I wish you the best of luck."

     Cullen goes to Carver that night and curls against him in their bed, thinking on the matter.  Carver says nothing and merely holds him, letting him think and keeping him safe.

     Safety.  _Trust_.  These are the keys, somehow.

     Sitting up, Cullen reaches up to touch Carver's face.  The room is dim, the fire having died down to a flicker.  Cullen knows Carver's face anyhow, by touch.  He knows everything that matters of Carver -- and what he does not know will do him no harm.  He is certain of this, because love and trust go hand in hand.

     "Will you help me?" he asks.  Then he tells Carver what he wants.

     Carver says:  "'Course." 

     And that is that.

     So the next night, Cullen goes to the common room with Carver.  The mood in the room is subdued, though relaxed; everyone knows by now that Stroud is stepping down.  Cullen sees the others looking at him with speculation, with expectation, with resentment, and understands that Stroud has been correct in his advice.  Everyone here is strong in ways that most Templars are not, and this is a mighty thing.  If he can win them, no force in the Maker's creation will be able to stop them.  If he cannot...

     Well.  He means to.

     Cullen goes to each of them in turn, touching a shoulder here, a hand there, looking all of them in the eye.  He speaks with the few who seem to need it, exchanging inanities, but such gestures are not what he has come to share.  Gestures are meaningless for those who dwell in the dark.  Touch is more effective.

     So Carver smiles as Cullen comes back to him.  They're in front of the fire, on the hearthrug again, and everyone is watching this time.  They see Carver undress him and lay him on the rug and drive him half-mad with slow touches and kisses and nibbles.  He feels their eyes on him, their interest, as Carver oils himself and takes Cullen in careful, shallow strokes.  He's quick about it, and this is a torment in itself, but Cullen doesn't complain.  Carver knows the way of this.  Cullen trusts him utterly.  He will keep Cullen safe.

     Then Carver eases off him to lie alongside.  He looks at the others, some of whom have drawn near, and beckons.  He hardly needs to.  There is a unity in the way that Wardens function.

     Levyn is the first, which is both predictable and a complete surprise.  His hands tremble as he touches Cullen, but Cullen tangles their fingers together and brushes the blood mage's mouth with his own and lets him know without words that he is not like the Templars who have torn at Levyn, terrorized him, taken everything from him.  So Levyn makes a little sound of need and falls on him, slurping and suckling and nibbling until Cullen cries out in helpless ecstasy.  Levyn watches him greedily all through his climax, and when he lifts his head, licking his lips, Cullen can see that he wants more.  Levyn's need is almost bottomless; he has been lonely for such a long time.  But Carver grabs Levyn's hand and pulls him off Cullen, dragging him into a spooning position and sliding a hand under his robes and whispering something in his ear that makes Levyn whimper and melt.  Cullen can't hear what he says because it's low, and because Faren is already kneeling before Cullen with a toothy smile.

     So it goes, one after another.  Velanna straddles him when Faren has spent himself, and Cullen groans beneath the grind of her hips.  Darrian takes Cullen's mouth, and there is something dark and angry in his eyes as he does it; perhaps he sees other human men, imagines fucking other mouths.  Still, he does not hurt Cullen, and Cullen does not fear him.  When he is done he looks at Cullen, breathing hard, but Carver leans in to kiss Darrian away, and Mereg takes her place above Cullen next.

     Not all of them accept Cullen's offer, although many do -- and the fact that the offer is there has its own power.  No one tries to hurt him.  No one takes more than their share, though some are plainly tempted.  Only once does Cullen truly need Carver, and that is when some of  the watchers press too close; the feeling of entrapment reminds Cullen too much of a magical cage.  Carver glares and curses them back, though, and it's all right after that.

     Cullen's growing tired when Stroud settles awkwardly on his other side, stroking his belly.  "I have no right to ask," Stroud says, and he looks almost shy.  "I will not be part of what you're making.  But..."  He looks away, down Cullen's body, and his fingertips graze Cullen's cock so wistfully that Cullen inhales in amazing, aching want.  "It... will be very cold, down there in the dark."

     Cullen immediately rolls onto his belly, breathing hard and reaching for Carver's hand.  "You will not be alone there.  We shall always be with you, one way or another."

     When Stroud covers Cullen's back, he is trembling, just a little.  "Thank you."  Then he kisses Cullen's shoulder and holds him carefully in place with his lone hand.

     It almost goes wrong here.  Stroud's huge and it hurts.  Cullen's gritting his teeth through it, gripping Carver's hand and wondering if he's made a mistake because he was already sore -- but then Sifforth crouches beside them and takes his other hand and pours healing magic through him.  This allows Cullen to feel how careful Stroud is being, how needful Stroud is, and that helps him relax.  Carver is whispering in his ear, too:  marvelous things, titillating things.  Carver is stroking himself while watching Stroud fuck him, and the sight of this finally makes Cullen lose himself.  He begins pushing back against Stroud until the other man is crying, pleading in Orlesian, helpless in the grip of Cullen's desire.

     Cullen holds all of them, really -- Stroud and Carver and everyone who has touched him and even those who have only watched, or thought of watching.  They rise with him, united in his pleasure.  When he moans there is a sussuruss of echoes; when he demands more, some of them fall upon each other in their own need, and soon the room is full of wet violent sounds. 

     But it is Carver's hand that Cullen grips as he shudders and drags the three of them with him over the edge.  And it is Carver who holds him close as Stroud crawls away spent; Carver who strokes other people's sweat off his body; Carver who kisses other people's lust from his lips.

     "I have you," Carver says, and Cullen sinks gratefully into an exhausted sleep.  Carver's voice follows him into the dark.  "Shh.  Yeah.  You're perfect. So fucking perfect, Cull. We've _all_ got you, now."

#

     They send Stroud off a month later.  Cullen is the first to draw his sword and kneel in salute while Stroud passes between them, and the others follow Cullen's lead.  They all watch, though, as Stroud's tall form strides into the shadows.  He does not look back. They do not look away until the great gates of the ancient thaig swing shut in his wake.  That is the Warden way.

     Then Cullen turns to face them, and they wait, expectantly, for his first command.  There's so much to do: darkspawn to clean out of the hills, and dark conspiracies to address before they threaten the Wardens' cause.  Cullen gazes back at these men and women who stand ready to face evil alongside him, and he smiles, knowing that evil hasn't a chance in the Void.

     "Come," Cullen says, and they grin back at him with all the ferocity of the horde.  "We have a world to save, do we not?"

     So they flow forth as one, to do precisely that.

**Author's Note:**

> Once more into the "what would Cullen be like as a Warden" breach. These Wardens, if you haven't guessed, are partly based on the Wardens as I wrote them in my tanukiham response 'fic "The Dead Trenches". Certain fanonical tidbits (like Stroud's ginormous cock) came from there. Yes, Faren is *that* Faren and Darrian is *that* Darrian; why? Because I felt like it. And Levyn is Jowan, and Velanna is her beautiful badass self. There's also a few random OCs in the group for shits and giggles. Beyond that, I just like the idea of playing with Wardens as a grim, semihuman (-elven/-dwarven/-kossith), borderline creepy bunch, whom the taint has changed in more ways than one. Sometimes it's nice to let the Id out to play.
> 
> That said, I don't think I'm going to keep writing this series. It was a fun experiment, but it's going too dark for me, and frankly the endgame is really obvious from here: there can be no happy ending for this version of Cullen and Carver. As Cullen notes herein, they'll be lucky to have ten years together. And the more I play around with Cullen-as-Warden, the more I realize *he doesn't work* as a Warden -- that is, the small psychological adjustments that a Warden must make to endure his grim fate have results which transform Cullen almost beyond recognition, and perhaps beyond the point where I can continue to like him. Frex, this Cullen's gradually becoming an atheist. I've got no problem with atheists (some of my best friends are atheists [tm]), but the Cullen of canon clings almost desperately to faith and duty as a bulwark against the ugliness of the world. Without his faith, is he still Cullen? Maybe, but do I still want to write him? Yes, obviously, but not for long. 
> 
> Also, I just wrote Cullen on the receiving end of a gangbang, for serious. Reeeeeeallllly didn't plan that one, guys. That whole butterfly effect thing just escalated quickly. -_-
> 
> So, hope you enjoyed, and please note that concrit is always welcome. I'm curious to know what you think of this one -- really.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My Heart Still Thumps, As I Bleed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5775016) by [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon)




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